So this is just something that has been rattling around in my head for a while so I decided to actually sit down and try to write it. Hopefully it turns out okay *crosses fingers*. I don't own anything so suing would be a little pointless. Please review :]
Prologue
A sad but overwhelming truth in life is that, for every idiot that throws their life away, there is someone else somewhere that gets hurt through no fault of his or her own. Unfortunately when adults answer that whiney "that's not fair" with the ever helpful, "life's not fair, get used to it", they don't know quite how accurate that is.
Regrettably, we find such a secondhand victim at the beginning of this story, as you'd probably be able to guess if you passed her. The image of a scruffy teenager downing cherry vodka alone on a low wall surrounding a block of council flats late at night doesn't really conjure feelings of optimism and joy, does it? Then again, this may well be fitting, as Santana Lopez didn't feel particularly optimistic or joyful at the moment. She took another long drink and looked around her. The vodka seemed to have already impaired her ability to make controlled, fluid movements. She moved like a rusty toy at one moment and then overshot her mark and swung around like a pendulum. Perhaps she was a lightweight, but anyone could see from the angry, unfocussed look in her eyes it was much more likely she had been sitting on this wall for quite a while.
Unbeknownst to any passersby, and one might of guessed even to Santana herself, as by this point she was staring vaguely at the road, this was no ordinary wall she had slumped on when she had been refused entrance to the bars. She had grown up on this estate; at least she had up until she was eleven years old. The memories she had of that time weren't all positive, but they weren't all negative either, so it was good enough for her. It also seemed poignant to her floaty, intoxicated mind that this should be the last place she sat before she started her new life.
By age eleven, Santana had become somewhat of a nuisance to her parents. The two year old they could put up with was no longer as easy to look after once she had gotten older and things like school began to get involved. The strain she placed on them, along with the added strain of being two "every now and again" alcoholics was becoming too much for them. In the end, little Santana was hauled away by the social services and placed in a foster home not ten minutes away. In her absence Mr. Lopez had little to distract himself with and turned instead to those things that impressionable minds turn to, with the aim of alleviating their ongoing boredom. He drank a lot, cared about very little and littered his life with enemies. He died three years later, when Santana was fourteen, after falling two stories from a friend's balcony window.
"A tragic accident" the papers had called it.
Santana's mother, although rightfully devastated, was in some ways relatively relieved. Her late husband had become almost impossible to live with after Santana had left. Some may have murmured under their breaths that the feeling had been mutual. Mrs. Lopez processed an unusual talent for falling pregnant when, according to gossip, Mr. and Mrs. Lopez hadn't been intimate in years. Not since little Santana had left. How could they? They didn't even like each other. Mr. Lopez had given up asking questions when his third "son" Alberto was born with a shock of bright red hair, despite the fact that neither him, nor Mrs. Lopez shared this trait. He didn't like to point out that it was a disturbingly similar shade to that of the milkman's. It wouldn't have made very good gossip anyway. Fooling around with the milkman? Did the woman have no creativity?
Not one to be deterred by tragedy of any sort, Mrs. Lopez took her husbands death as a sort of challenge. She cleaned up her act and wiped the slate clean too, and now lived relatively comfortably with her three sons, the dark-skinned William, Toby with his unusually bright green eyes and, of course, redhead Alberto. Had she any time to herself while looking after her three boys under five to look out of the window, she might have seen a more grown up Santana Lopez. But she wouldn't have recognized her. Santana was just another discrepancy of her past life, wiped clean.
Santana watched as one by one the little lights of the council flat were snuffed out and the street became dark apart from the flickering streetlights overhead. She had finished her vodka. Never having been one for recycling, she chucked the empty bottle into a hedge opposite her.
Pulling her leather jacket around her she was disappointed to find that this motion did little to warm her up, despite the burning sensation in her throat and chest from the vodka. It was more like a dull burn, like feeling a hot pan through a tea towel. It was enough to alert you that what was underneath was warm, but had neither the strength nor the passing fancy to pursue any further. Frankly, between her scalding insides and ice-cold skin, she just felt slightly ill.
Abandoning any thoughts of proper warmth for the time being, she reached down to a Wal-Mart shopping bag at her feet, the bag that now held everything she had. It contained all of her memories of her past life and all she could take to get to her new one. After fishing around through the assortment of mismatched clothes and other random belongings she finally found a battered looking but perfectly functional mobile phone. She was aware she had been sitting on this little wall for far too long. Her escape had gone so well that the other aspects of her plan had been forgotten. However, the thought of wandering the streets on her own in this part of town so late was enough to terrify even her. She turned her phone on and scrolled down the list of contacts. She needed a place to stay.
Megan? No dice. She had moved away to Bluffton to start college months ago.
Holly? Never. Santana would rather walk to Bluffton with rusty nails in her shoes than ask that smug slag for a favour.
Dean? No. It was already two o'clock in the morning. He would be as drunk as she was by now and she didn't fancy adding 'fatal car crash' to her list of dramas tonight.
Tom? No way. Too handsy.
Lizzie? Nah, she lived with her parents, who despised the very sight of her.
This was starting to get hopeless. Santana started to shiver as she scrolled up and down the list, growing ever more anxious as she realized that none of them, not even her old school friends, who had just six months ago been worshipping the ground she walked on, would be particularly pleased to find her turning up at their doorstep, shit-faced and newly homeless. Suddenly her eye caught on an unfamiliar name; Noah Puckerman. That was a weird name. She didn't remember a Noah Puckerman…
Oh, yeah! Puck. She smiled as she remembered. The mohawked guy she had met at a party a few weeks ago, where he had spent the night shamelessly flirting with her, with very little success. He had seemed like a nice enough bloke, and quite honestly, this was her last chance. She typed out a message.
puck, its santana. From ellies party? I was wondering if it might be possible to stay the night? Sleep off the hangover, ykno?
Santana knew it was probably a bit much to ask that of a guy she barely knew, especially at two in the morning, but she remembered that Puck had mentioned that he worked late shifts for his delivery business, so it was worth a shot. She sent the text and sat back down on her wall, drumming her fingers against the crumbling bricks. Suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea. Puck had been a bit of a douche at that party, especially when she had made it pretty clear that she wasn't going to put out for him. She bit her lip and stood up sluggishly. There was no way he was going to pick her up.
Suddenly her phone vibrated in her hand.
Sure, no worries. Need me to pick you up?
She grinned. Maybe Puck wasn't such a douche after all.
Thanks puck, I'm at the Dickson flats near the pub.
She stuffed the phone back into her bag and settled down to wait.
Her foster home was no longer in sight, it was a few roads down from where she sat, but it still seemed uncomfortably close, looming over her like some psycho stalker. She felt like Mrs. Teller could just take one glance out of her window with her beady little eyes and see Santana sitting on this low wall, painfully visible in the spotlight created by the streetlights. But no, she was just being silly. Silly, melodramatic and paranoid. In all honesty that place was so full to bursting these days that she doubted that even if Mrs. Teller had developed the ability to see through the houses protecting Santana, she wouldn't have had the chance to. The triplets were teething and Billy and Elliot were probably causing some sort of minor explosion. An unwanted knot of nostalgia ripped through her stomach.
The streetlight above her flickered and a beat-up little transit van chugged round the corner.
Santana laughed as Puck pulled up and stepped out of the van, "So this is your 'sweet ride' you were telling me about, eh, Puck?"
He scowled at her good-naturedly. "Oi, piss off. By that point I had pretty much decided you were never going to want to see it. Why bother telling the truth? Anyways it's either this or the bus. Make your choice, Lopez."
Holding up her hands in defeat, Santana made her way around the van and climbed into the passenger seat. Puck grinned at her as he got back in and started up the engine. She tried not to notice the way his grin faltered, just for a second, as he spotted the plastic bag and focused instead on watching the flats slip out of sight in the rearview mirror, hopefully for the last time.
